The Lady on the Train -- another story from the "I can't make this stuff up file"

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It was a beautiful, sunny, spring Tuesday morning in 1985. I had a three-day pass and was on the InterCity train from Frankfurt to Munich. It was a slow travel day so I had a compartment all to myself. Airman O’Connor was off duty and looking forward to some serious relaxation.

After stowing my bag on the overhead rack I settled in. I had a system for train travel. It consisted of a classic German cheese sandwich on a hard roll, orange Fanta and a good book. It didn’t get much better than that. After opening my can of pop I sat back and let the world wiz by my window. I was looking forward to three hours of peace and quiet. Awesome!

Thirty minutes into the trip we stopped briefly in Heidelberg to take on passengers. Thanks to world-renowned German efficiency before I knew it we were back on our way to Munich. I still had more than two-and-a-half hours of solitude in front of me. Great!

I returned to my book. Two pages later, however, I heard a knock at the compartment door.

I looked up and found a little gray-haired German grandma-looking lady at the door. She was wearing a floral-print dress under a raincoat – the classic German grandma outfit. With a smile she asked me in very formal German if there was a free seat in the compartment.

A quick side note. I don’t speak German. The best I can do is “tourist German.” Keep the conversation focused on food, booze and traveling and I’m OK. Beyond those subjects I’m lost, so I end up just smiling and nodding like an idiot.

I was able to handle her particular question, and being a Boy Scout at heart I helped stow her bag on the overhead rack.

I returned to my seat, Fanta and book, innocently assuming that our interaction had come to its logical conclusion. Like boxers, we’d mixed it up and now were in our separate corners.

She on the other hand had a different plan. She wanted to chat – whether I wanted to or not was immaterial. She had me squarely in her sights. I could feel her staring at me. Like the mouse at the trap I took the bait – I made eye contact.

That’s all she needed. She switched into tour-guide mode and proceeded to give me very detailed play-by-play of everything we saw whooshing by our window – pausing often to ask me what I thought about it – all in German. It was all I could do to keep up.

So there I was, imprisoned with the German version of my Grandma Lucy. Now that’s not a bad thing. I loved my grandma, and this lady seemed perfectly nice. It’s just that I had a plan. But apparently so did she.

I was raised to be polite, so I gave it everything I had and stretched my limited German to the breaking point. It was like a two-and-a-half-hour oral exam. By the time we reached Munich I was a sweaty, frazzled, stressed-out mess. So much for my plan.

As the train slowed to enter the Munich train station I stood up with relief and helped my newfound friend retrieve her bag from the overhead rack. As she gathered her things, I reached for my bag.

At that moment she turned to me and with an absolutely spot-on Midwestern American accent asked, “So are you British?”

I almost dropped the bag on my head. Once I got it safely to the floor I said, “No ma’am, I’m American.”

“Really?!,” she said. “I would’ve sworn you were British. I couldn’t place your accent.”

I explained that the little bit of slang German I spoke came from living in Frankfurt.

“Oh,” she said. “That explains it. People in Frankfurt don’t have a strong accent.”

Then I asked her where she was from. “Oh, I’m from Munich,” she said with a smile, “But I’ve lived with my daughter and son-in-law in Ohio for the last 10 years. I’m home on holiday.”

With that she waved goodbye and walked off the train. I never saw her again.

It just goes to show that you should never assume anything about anyone. My adopted German grandma and I both assumed, and we were both wrong. But I did appreciate the German lesson.

I just can’t make this stuff up. Danke schoen Oma, wherever you are.

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